The Mark on the Calender
by JayEvans
Summary: In which Lana turns 23, Sherlock forgets, and John nearly burns down the kitchen. a little one-shot, alternate-ending to the flatmates to make up for drowning my editor in feels.


Save the Last Piece

The knock at the door woke Lana up with a groan.

The sun was just creeping through the window into her basement apartment, tossing dancing bits of light around her room like bright confetti. It caught the unmade bed, the clothes strewn across the floor, the heaping stacks of notes and maps and dead ends, and the desk where Lana had fallen asleep the night before.

Pushing the stray papers in her lap into the trash bin, Lana pushed her long hair out of her eyes and surveyed the mess. It had almost been an all-nighter; the last time she remembered seeing was 3 30 am on her watch, but somewhere between then and now she had crashed in her seat, fully clothed and hair askew.

The knocking persisted, and the telltale sound of Missus Hudson came from the other side of the door.

"oo-hoo! You awake, dear? Thought you'd have had your whole day planned."

"Coming, Missus Hudson," Lana called, yawning and pulling back her hair with an elastic she had found under an empty coffee mug. Swinging out of her seat, the groggy reporter opened the door for her landlady.

Missus Hudson stood in the hallway of 221C, wearing a flowery apron and carrying a plate of Lana's favorite breakfast; coffee, French toast and strawberries. The smell set off an immediate grumbling from the pits of her stomach, and Lana remembered in vivid detail the complete lack of dinner she had eaten the night before.

"Thanks, Missus Hudson; you didn't have to do this." Lana said graciously, taking the plate anyway.

"Oh, it's no trouble, dear. I never get to do much for the boys, but I love having you here and I've always thought you were so good for them, having a lady around to keep things a bit neater. And besides, wanted this to be my little way of saying Happy Birthday to you."

Lana smiled. "I didn't think anyone remembered, Missus Hudson. Thank you again."

"Don't you worry about it, dear, you just enjoy your food."

"I will," Lana said, trying to ignore the painfully loud growls coming from her stomach. "It smells amazing."

"I'll leave you to it, dear. You take care of yourself today."

And with those parting words and a kiss on the cheek, the landlady made her way back upstairs, cursing her hip as she went.

Lana smiled as she shut the door, then sat down on her bed and stuffed three strawberries into her mouth in a very unlady-like fashion. _I'm twenty three years old today and I still eat like I'm a starving teenager, _she thought, digging into the French toast.

It felt odd to think about that. Twenty-three. Not much had really happened to her yet, not since she had met Sherlock. The past year and a half had been amazing and terrifying, one thrill ride after another. They had run together and she hoped they would never stop.

Breakfast was finished quickly, and scooping up the dirty dishes and empty mugs around the room, Lana took them all upstairs to wash. She crept up the stairs, being careful not to wake anyone up; she had no idea what time it was, her watch was buried under some paper avalanche. But she knew what Sherlock could be like in the mornings, and she didn't want to rob John of his much needed sleep.

Slipping into 221B, Lana set all the dishes in the sink and looked around. The flat was unusually quiet, peaceful, and strangely organized. Where there was usually a tidal wave of junk on the ground, there was only a laundry basket, a neat stack of books, and a few stray objects. It looked almost…normal. That is, until you looked at the kitchen. There was a new experiment bubbling on the table that smelled faintly like rosemary and lemons, and a pair of blood stained shoes was sitting beside it. Curious about the new case, Lana stepped forward to look at any notes, but before she could decode any of Sherlock's handwriting, John walked in, wearing a bathrobe and a bleary-eyed expression.

"Morning," he yawned, setting his own mug beside hers and smiling. "Sleep all right?"

"Not much sleep at all, actually," she replied, starting the water in the sink and snapping on a pair of rubber gloves. "I was working until almost dawn. Any developments in this case?" she gestured to the table.

"This?" John shook his head. "I don't even know what this is. He was working on it last night after I went turned in, so I've got no clue." He looked around. "He's probably still asleep. Best not to wake him now, I'd guess. He's like a dragon in the mornings."

Lana giggled as a mental image of a dragon Sherlock, wings and all, smoke pouring out of his nose. She finished drying the last of the mugs and turned back to John, pulling off her gloves with a satisfying snap. "Do you have work today?"

"No, I've got the next couple days off," he replied, moving over to the couch to look for his sweater and a clean pair of socks. Once he had claimed his prizes, he looked up with a smile, then stepped over Sherlock's violin and gave her a hug. "Happy birthday, by the way."

Lana smiled and squeezed back. "Thanks, John. Want to grab lunch later?"

"Sounds great," John replied, releasing her, and Lana grinned as she headed out the door.

Lana wasn't sure what to think as she headed downstairs to change. Her mind had drifted, as her mind often did when she was avoiding a question. She guessed Sherlock had probably forgotten, and she didn't expect him to say or do anything while he was on a case. But still…this was one of those times she was annoyed she had a high-functioning sociopath for a boyfriend.

A loud ringing broke Lana out of her momentary brooding. Shifting clothes from the pile beside her bed, she unearthed her phone and answered.

"Hello?"

"Hello, sweetie. Happy birthday."

Lana smiled wide. "Hey, mom." She looked at her watch. "it's getting kind of late over there, isn't it?"

"Not too bad; Peter and I have plans for dinner tonight, but I wanted to call you first. So tell me, what's been happening?"

An hour later, when she hung up the phone, Lana had forgotten all about being upset with Sherlock.

….

"You do know what day it is, right?" John asked, picking up the bloody shoes and moving them to the counter.

Sherlock didn't even bother to look up when he responded. "March 18th, Monday, 5 days since our last case was solved, 12 days until the bills are due, and 3 days until the milk expires. Nothing out of the ordinary is scheduled for today, so John, if you don't mind, put the shoes back where you found them and tell me what your point is."

"Oh my God, you forgot," John sighed, rubbing his forehead with his fingers and continuing to move the lab equipment off the kitchen table.

"Forgot?"

"You are unbelievable." John replied, his teeth clenched.

"Then enlighten me," Sherlock replied, sitting up on the couch and looking at him with bleary eyes.

John turned on his friend. "Lana, Sherlock. You forgot her birthday is today."

Sherlock looked over at the calendar John had bought. Beneath the M.C. Escher sketch of infinite stairs, on the date March 18th, was a large red circle.

"So that's what that mark is," he muttered, falling back onto the couch.

"How did-how could," John was at a loss for words. "You do know she's your girlfriend, right?"

"Yes, John, I'm aware that she's my girlfriend," Sherlock replied, covering his face with his hands and shutting out the light from outside.

"Then how could you have forgotten-"

"Deleted, John. I've deleted it." Sherlock replied, his hands still over his face.

"Fine, deleted, then. How could you delete your girlfriend's birthday?" John looked over at Sherlock, in his usual pouting position on the couch, and wondered if the wall was going to take another pounding.

"Why would that be important information?" Sherlock asked, stretching out and feeling with one hand for his box of nicotine patches. "People get older every day, it's not as though we throw parties for them all the time."

_He honestly doesn't get it, _John thought, staring at his friend. "It's for appreciation, Sherlock. That's the whole point."

"I show her appreciation. I kiss her all the time. Isn't that appreciation?"

John shook his head. "You're still missing the point. The whole point is that we celebrate that she's been alive another year. We get to show her how much she's meant to us and that we're happy she's in our lives."

"I still do that anyway," Sherlock pointed out. "But, I suppose that there'd be no harm in doing it again."

"That's the spirit," John murmured, pulling out a metal bowl and electric mixer from the dark of the cupboard.

"What are you doing?"

John tried to not turn pink. "Nothing."

"Liar," Sherlock smirked, swinging into the kitchen and gathering up the notes John had tossed onto the counter. "I'll find out soon enough."

….

Two hours later, knee deep in his mind palace, Sherlock sat up, alarmed by the smell of acrid smoke boiling through the flat. Tossing aside the notes, he swung his long legs onto the carpet and slid over the floor in his socks, almost falling into the hallway. The smell was stronger outside his room, and he could also hear the loud, low sounds of John's frustrated swearing.

He stepped into the kitchen and immediately inhaled a cloud of thick, black smoke. Coughing, he looked over and saw John at the table, holding a hunk of what appeared to be a burning black brick. He watched in confusion as John threw open the cupboard beneath sink, hurling the smoking mass into the garbage with a final, definitive bang and a loud, "God damn it!"

"What were you trying to make? A bomb?" Sherlock asked, surveying the disaster that was the rest of the kitchen. Broken eggshells, splashes of flour, and two bowls covered in a brown, gritty-looking ooze.

John was red in the face, muttering under his breath.

"Didn't quite get that, John." Sherlock prompted.

"Shut up, you."

"Hmm, very original, John." Sherlock replied sarcastically as he stepped up and surveyed the mess in closer detail. "I never had any idea how terrible your cooking is. Thank God we eat out most of the time."

"Thanks for the encouragement," John snarled, fanning the smoke out the now open window. "it's not my fault I don't know how to cook. I just wanted to make Lana a birthday cake…I guess I could just get her one at the shop…" he looked at the kitchen. "Once I clean this up."

Sherlock ran some numbers and suspected it would take John at least an hour to get this all done.

"Get out."

"What?"

"I said get out," Sherlock said, scooping up the bowl and dumping into the sink. "Go take her to lunch."

"but-"

"I'll handle it. Now go."

And without another word, Sherlock began scooping the fallen eggshells and floured remains off the table and into the trashcan. John watched for a moment in shock before shaking his head, closing his mouth and walking out the door with as much dignity as he could manage

….

Dinner that evening was social and bright. Missus Hudson and Molly had put their heads together and prepared a dinner of roast chicken, salad and a savory soup. Everyone had gathered to eat in the living room of 221B because there was no room in the kitchen, and the floor was covered in mismatched chairs and cushions as the party guests arranged themselves as best as they could. Molly was perched on a cushion, and Sarah and Sally were sitting on the couch with John. LeStrade was sitting in John's usual armchair, and Missus Hudson was in a kitchen chair close to the fireplace. Lana had settled down on a lumpy cushion near the side table. Everyone's plates had been cleared, and Lana was up, hugging everyone and thanking them for coming and for the gifts. Considering she had never expected them to give her anything, Lana had been pleasantly surprised. Missus Hudson had made her a hand-knitted jumper, and LeStrade gave her an onyx-coated pen set with the silver engraving _Lana D. Heart. _Sarah bought her a zodiac charm bracelet, Molly, a hat and scarf set, and a bottle of perfume from Sally.

"You're all too sweet," Lana cried, squeezing Molly tightly. "You didn't have to get me anything."

"But we didn't care," Sarah replied, wrapping her arm around John.

The lights suddenly went out, and they fell silent in surprise. Everyone turned their heads as a new source of light entered from the kitchen.

Sherlock stood in the doorway, holding a cake lined with several bright candles. The whole thing was covered in thick chocolate icing, and topped with iced green ivy.

"Showoff," John muttered.

Sherlock set the cake down on the side table, and flashed Lana his crooked half-smile that only she could see. Then he sat back, sitting back in the remaining armchair and returning that cynical smirk on his face that he wore in public.

Molly led a chorus of 'Happy Birthday', and Lana closed her eyes, thanked God for her friends, and blew all the candles out in one breath.

….

Some time later, after all the guests had left, Sherlock, Lana and John were sitting among the remaining cushions, drinking wine and trying not to look at the clock.

"I had no idea you could bake," Lana commented, pouring herself her third glass and spilling a bit onto the table.

"it's all chemistry, really," Sherlock replied, trying his best to keep a straight face.

John stood up suddenly, and reached down underneath the couch.

"What are you doing?"

"I wanted to wait until they left," John replied, pulling out two wrapped gifts and handing them to Lana. she gave him a sly smile and dramatically felt the weight of each. One was light and easy to move, the other had some weight to it. Lana opened the lighter one first. Inside was an Amelia Hill she had been dying to read. She beamed at John. "You remembered. We saw this in the bookstore last week."

"Of course I remembered," John replied. "I'm not completely useless."

"Only sometimes," Sherlock commented, but Lana pretended not to hear him as she opened the second present. A gasp escaped her lips as she pulled out a vintage, crank handle rollieflex camera that she had been admiring for weeks. She pulled it out and admired it from every angle, reached over and smothered John with a hug. "It's perfect. Thank you so much."

"Of course," John wheezed. "Can't…breathe…"

Lana released him with a laugh and wound the camera, snapping a picture of his still-stunned face.

As John turned to pour himself another glass of wine, Sherlock touched her shoulder, and she turned in surprise.

"Come with me."

She nodded, confused, and took his hand as Sherlock led her down the hall and into his room.

It was dark; the only lights came from outside as cars flashed past the window. The occasional burst of brightness showed the large bed, the desk piled with notes, and the periodic table hanging on the opposite wall.

Lying on the bed were two small packages.

Lana smiled coyly. "What are these?"

"Please don't use stupidity as a means of flirting, Lana. it's immature and ridiculous and I find stupidity repelling," Sherlock replied, picking up the smaller of the two packages and handing it to her. She tore away the paper and opened the box.

Inside, lying on a cushion of velvet, was a long silver necklace. It was a simple chain, made of several interlocking links, and on the end was a large, glass pendant. Lana picked it up in wonder and stared at it, watching the world magnify and warp through the glass. It was simple, elegant, practical and mysterious and she loved it.

"it's beautiful," she whispered.

Sherlock lifted the necklace out of her fingers, pulled away her hair with one cool hand and slipped the necklace around her neck. "I hoped you'd be pleased," he murmured, kissing the back of her neck. She giggled with pleasure and turned around again as Sherlock picked up the other gift and held it out to her.

"Here"

The paper was torn away and she found inside a blue, leather journal. It looked worn, well-used, and she opened it in confusion.

There were words written in the inside covered, and she immediately recognized Sherlock's spiky cursive.

A study and experience of Miss Lana Diane Heart

Lana sank onto the bed, one hand over her mouth as she opened the book and began reading.

May 19th- I encountered a most unusual young lady this evening. Name of Lana Diane Heart, she is a short American with long hair and a strong nature. She intrigues me. in fact she was able to hold her own against two assassins, a burglar and myself. I will be interested to see more of her talents.

It was a story. All about her. Sherlock had chronicled their time together in the little book, starting the night they met and ending a few days ago. He talked about her eyes, and how he had grown to respect her, then like her, then feel…something else.

June 7th- I can't explain it. spent most of last night thinking about her again. My pulse accelerates quickly and I find it very hard to think. I feel as though I care about her comings and goings and isms far too much. I suppose people call that love.

June 15th- Logic tells me that what happened between myself and Miss Heart today should be seen as a mistake…and yet, I can't bring myself to think so. Also, I was surprised by how soft her lips are.

She flipped ahead.

July 10th- I thought I lost her. After two weeks of fear she would never wake up again and fearing I would have to bury her. I tried to imagine going back to normal if she died and I couldn't see it. There's no other word for it but relief. She's safe, and that's all that matters. And she wants to stay. She wants to stay here. With me. This is what it feels like, isn't it? This is what all the fuss is about. Having a girlfriend. Being in love.

Lana felt her eyes well up with tears, and she smiled up at Sherlock, who was looking at her with uncertainty.

"Do you…like it?"

She stepped forward, looped her arms around his neck, and kissed him full on the mouth. Sherlock was so relieved she had liked the gift that he responded with immediate enthusiasm, lifting Lana off the ground and setting her down in the hallway.

John looked up from his armchair and saw his two best friends kissing in the dim light of the hallway. Rolling his eyes and smiling good naturedly, he heaved himself out of the armchair and went to get himself his third-or was it fourth- piece of cake.


End file.
